


What Is And What Should Never Be

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Hallucinations, Hell, M/M, Post-Hell, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sound doesn’t travel in hell. Nothing but fire and chains, nothing but smoke and sulfur. Nothing for sound to bounce off of, to travel somewhere someone would hear and save him. Somewhere Sam would hear and save him. But Sam can’t hear him, nor save him, not even when Dean is back on earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is And What Should Never Be

‘Sam?’ A question.

‘Sam!’ A scream.

Sound doesn’t travel in hell. Nothing but fire and chains, nothing but smoke and sulfur. Nothing for sound to bounce off of, to travel somewhere someone would hear and save him. Somewhere Sam would hear and save him.

‘Sammy.’ A whisper.

 

**May 20 – 2 days in hell**

 

‘Dean Winchester. A sight for sore eyes, you are.’

The voice is smooth, slithery, oily. The smell surrounding the voice is heavy with sulfur. From a black cloud of smoke, the most hideous creature he has ever seen appears. Deformed, rotting in places, worms crawling everywhere. It introduces itself as Alastair.

‘We’re gonna have so much fun together, boy. I will teach you everything I know and soon, very soon, you’ll be my best student. Broken and rebuilt as a new kind of animal, a killing machine, a demonic mini-me.’

Alastair almost crows with delight before turning cold stone, black eyes on Dean.

‘But first, your welcome to hell special party.’

With a smirk, Alastair whips out a razor. He circles Dean’s naked, strung up, bound and gagged body a few times, fingers touching and squeezing him every now and then, nothing painful. Yet.

‘Don’t know if I can wait, son. Don’t know if I can wait for everyone else to come down and watch us play. Maybe I’ll just start without them, huh?’

He bucks up, away from Alastair, the meat hooks digging and pulling on his body. It tears a yell out of him, a terrified, pained scream forced through the cloth in his mouth, going nowhere. Alastair’s answering laugh doesn’t go anywhere either but to Dean’s ears.

‘Scream all you want boy, soon you’ll be pleading and begging. Begging me to stop, to release you, to take you off the rack. I can you know. All you have to do is cut. Put souls on and start cutting. What do you say, hm? How about we skip the foreplay and go right to the main course, huh?’

Alastair rips the cloth from his mouth.

‘Prepare to beg, boy.’

Dean gasps for breath and glares at Alastair. His voice is already broken and wrecked, but he manages to spit out the words as angrily as he can.

‘Listen to me, you asshole, and listen to me carefully. These will be the last words you will ever hear me say. I will never beg, I will never scream, I will never even so much as whisper. I will never give you what you want. Got that?’

Alastair considers him for a few minutes, a sly smirk slowly playing on his face. It takes everything in Dean not to respond to Alastair’s attitude.

‘Is that a challenge, boy? Because I accept.’

The first cut is vicious, deep. It is only the beginning.

_‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’_

No.

He dreams of his mother’s gentle hands, putting band-aids on his scrapes when he was young. Sam’s strong and capable hands stitching him up whenever he got cut. His dad’s hands on his shoulders after he saved Sam from the fire.

 

**May 28 – 10 days in hell**

 

‘Hello Dean.’

Alastair’s smell hits his nostrils like a freight train. Smoke, sulfur, rotten flesh, decaying bodies, old blood. The realization of where the smell comes from awakens the feeling of dread and terror inside Dean. It’s his own, remnants of what was left over of his body yesterday, after Alastair was done with him. His old blood, his burning and rotting flesh.

‘How’d you sleep? You look much better than yesterday.’

He’s not given time to respond, even if he wanted to. He doesn’t. Hasn’t made a sound in 10 days. Sam won’t hear him anyway.

‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, I’ve got big plans for us today. Or should I say, for you and your precious dad?’

Dean looks up just in time to see Alastair put on his father’s face and body. No.

‘We’re gonna have so much fun together.’

Even the voice is right. The air around them no longer bearing the heavy weight of yesterday’s torture, but the promise of what’s going to come in the next however many hours it will last until Alastair’s had enough. Engine oil, worn leather, and a faint trace of Old Spice. Promises, longing, regret. And lots and lots of pain.

The razor blade is first. It’s always first, one of the few predictable things about Alastair. Dean thinks Alastair does it on purpose; one day, when Dean least expects it, he’ll start with the furnace poker instead of the razor and Dean won’t be able to anticipate. Today is not that day.

The first cuts are shallow and don’t really hurt that much. Nothing he hasn’t felt before, in Hell or on Earth. But Alastair, wearing his father, is impatient. Much like his actual father. The shallow cuts soon turn deeper, harder, dirtier.

The thin skin behind his ear. It smells like decay.

The hollow between his collarbones. It tastes like sulfur.

Down his chest to his navel. It burns like flames.

Past his cock to his inner thighs and the back of his knees. It stings like acid.

His father talks. No, Alastair. Alastair talks. His tongue slides against Dean’s ear with every hoarsely ground out word, the tip licking the shell. Dean can’t hold back a disgusted shiver.

‘Are we having fun yet, son? You should see yourself, Dean. Taste yourself. Smell yourself.’

His father - no, Alastair - buries his nose in his hair and breathes in deeply.

‘God, you smell good. If only there was a way you could smell yourself... Oh wait!’

When he makes the mistake to look up and at his father – no, Alastair - the yellow eyes staring back at him are glowing with anticipation and something that could almost pass as glee. He looks away quickly, but not before he catches the fire in his father’s eyes and the knife in his right hand.

‘Oh, this is going to be fun, Dean. Here. We. Go.’

Sharp, white hot pain blossoms across his face. The sickening crunch and tear of bone and flesh almost make him pass out. Almost.

His father pushes his cut-off nose to his crotch with a wicked grin, and leans in to waft acid breath over his face.

‘Smell yourself, boy. Smell your cock and balls. Smell the fear, the terror, the lust. SMELL IT!’

His father’s laugh reaches his ears, thrumming against his eardrums, demanding to be let in. What used to be a soothing, warm thing now sullied, torn away and replaced with his worst nightmare. A single tear escapes his screwed shut eyes, a soft sigh pushes past his lips.

The hand is soft, warm; palm calloused, fingertips soothing across his cheek. The voice is familiar in his ear.

‘Aw, Dean, come on. Don’t cry, baby boy. It’s okay, I’m here. Daddy’s here. Open your eyes, Dean, come on. Open your eyes for me. I gotcha, you’re safe. Come on, son, open your eyes.’

It’s almost convincing. Almost. But it’s enough. It’s enough to comfort him. Enough to make him want. Want his father. Want the strong hands to heal him, comfort him, carry him away. It’s enough to trick him.

Alastair bellows a maniacal laugh. He’s no longer wearing his father. His father is gone. Gone again.

‘You stupid, stupid boy.’

Pain explodes across his face and he passes out. Two of Alastair’s fingers still jammed in the holes where Dean’s nose would have been.

_‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’_

No.

Dean dreams of his father, and how he used to play “I got your nose” with him when he was four.

 

**May 31 – 13 days in hell**

 

‘Hey Dean.’

A flowery smell fills the air, and it is so out of place and jarring, Dean opens his eyes immediately, curiously. Miles and miles of soft, milky skin, deep dark eyes and flowy black hair. Lisa.

‘Long time no see.’ Her smile is kind and bright. It chases away the darkness of the past two weeks that surrounds him and gives him energy and hope.

The sweet smell gets stronger the closer she gets. It envelopes him in a fake sense of lust and love, blinding him for what he knows is there. It blinds him when soft hands start stroking him, petting him, caressing him. Lips kissing his own, his neck, his chest. A warm body pressed against his back, a solid, calming sensation designed to trick him even more. But he is blind.

His body responds to the soothing caresses it craves so badly, an exact counterpart to the pain and torture Alastair inflicts on him. His blood is warming, his skin is tingling, his cock is hard and flushed, begging for release. He can feel it building in the pit of his stomach with every touch and kiss Lisa lays on him. Lisa is everything he remembers, everything he needs right now. Everything that’s not there. But he is blind.

He is so blinded by need and hunger that he doesn’t see the flesh falling from her bones. He doesn’t feel the warmth of her palms turn icy cold. He doesn’t smell the sweet scent of her hair turn acid until it’s too late.

Something cold, hard and huge presses against his hole and it’s jarring, but not enough to lift to veil of lust and relief over having something nice. He knows he should be protesting, screaming, yelling, but he can’t. Not when Lisa’s here, touching him, loving him.

‘Oh Dean, Dean, Dean. Silly, silly Dean.’

A snap from bony hips causes such a vivid a pain inside him that he’s shocked right back to reality. Alastair.

‘Silly boy, thinking this is all real. Do you really think she’d be here? With you?’

Alastair laughs loudly in his ear and snaps his hips again. The decaying flesh from Lisa’s body sticks to Dean’s thighs, his lower back, stinging his skin, burning through it. His insides feel like they’re on fire, Lisa’s - Alastair’s - cock so deep and rough inside him.

‘Look at you boy, taking it up the ass so prettily. I bet you’ve done this before, haven’t you? Maybe with that pretty little brother of yours?’

The forceful thrusts speed up, making him shake in his bindings, the hooks in his body pulling on his flesh. Alastair’s laugh tears at his eardrums, his insides, his heart. He can feel himself ripping on the inside, the hooks on Alastair’s cock tearing his insides out. Alastair’s release burns his channel, up into his bowels and singes through his skin, leaving holes all over his body, big enough for Alastair to stick his fingers in and split them open.

Right before he passes out, Alastair makes his offer again.

_‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’_

No.

He dreams of Lisa and how she would whisper his name with her lips against his throat when she would come.

 

**June 20 – 33 days in hell**

 

‘This is gonna look so good on that pale skin of yours, Dean.’

He refuses to watch what Alastair is doing, refuses to acknowledge his presence, but he knows it’s futile. Soon enough, Alastair will demand his attention, painfully and shockingly.

‘I can’t believe we’ve been having all this fun for ten years now. Ten years, Dean, and I haven’t officially made you mine yet. Wanna go steady?’

The mocking tone in Alastair’s voice pisses him off, but he won’t react. He swore he wouldn’t.

‘Everyone will see that you’re mine. You are mine, aren’t you, boy?’

A flash of heat along his face almost has him opening his eyes. Almost.

‘I know you think you’re being strong and manly, Dean, but I’ll find a way to make you beg. Beg me to stop, beg me to continue.’

He wants to shake his head, wants to tell Alastair he will never break. He’s made it without making a sound for ten years now. Ten years he hasn’t given in, ten years he hasn’t given Alastair the satisfaction of breaking him.

‘Let’s give this a try, hm? Here we go.’

The first mark sears his skin and his flesh, inches deep. He can smell his own flesh burning, the brand stinging and burning. It feels as if his whole body is on fire, but he knows it’s only his thigh and he knows Alastair is only beginning.

‘Beautiful. Just beautiful Dean. Yes, this will be gorgeous.’

He drowns Alastair’s pleased murmurs. The pain is all consuming, his blood roaring through his body, the poker branding him deeper and deeper. Alastair brands Dean all over his legs, his back and his shoulders before forcing Dean to look at him.

‘Look at you, Dean. All branded and burnt up for me. And I’m not done yet, not by far. The fun has just begun.’

Dean squeezes his eyes closed and tries to block out Alastair and the pain. But Alastair has other ideas.

‘No, no, no, that just won’t do. I want you to look at yourself, Dean, see what I am doing to you. Open those gorgeous eyes for me, or I will do it for you.’

Dean hesitates a second too long. Fire licks on Alastair’s fingers, searing off Dean’s eyelids and forcing him to look at Alastair.

‘There, that’s better.’

No way to close his eyes anymore. No way to block out the sight of Alastair lifting the poker and driving it through his gut slowly and twisting it slightly. He wants to scream, yell, beg. But he won’t. Alastair rips the poker back and jams it through Dean’s left shoulder with force. He won’t beg. With a laugh, Alastair drives the poker through Dean’s groin, two, three times.

‘Ready to beg, boy? Come on, BEG ME!’

Alastair drops the poker, fire consuming his hands and arms. He waits for Dean to obey him, beg him, but Dean won’t. He can’t. He promised himself and Sammy. He won’t beg.

Alastair chuckles and shakes his head.

‘Fine. You stupid, stubborn bastard. Are you having fun yet?’

Without warning, Alastair digs both hands deep into Dean’s chest. Dean can feel Alastair’s fingers close around his guts, the fire burning them. He feels Alastair digging through his body, pulling out his intestines, scattering them in front of his feet.

‘Those are your bowels, Dean. Let’s see what else I can find for this biology class!’

Alastair rips out his spleen, his kidneys, his stomach, his appendix. Unable to close his eyes, Dean is forced to watch his body be torn to pieces, his inside chewed on by his tormentor. Blood dripping from Alastair’s lips, down his neck and his naked body to pool at Dean’s feet. The sight makes him gag and wish he could close his eyes.

‘Just two more things, Dean, and then you’ll be ready to beg, I think.’

Alastair counts down with his lips pressed to Dean’s ear, and his burning hands deep inside his body.

‘One, your lungs.’

A sickening, tearing, wet sound accompanies the pain of having his lungs ripped from his body. He desperately tries to breath, panic really setting in now, but Alastair just laughs at him and leans back in.

‘And two. Your heart.’

With a sharp tug, Alastair tears his heart from his body, shows it to Dean before licking it, slow and seductive.

‘Want a taste, boy?’

That’s the last thing he sees before Alastair burns out his eyes with his fingers, and he faints.

_‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’_

No.

Dean dreams of Sam and that night so long ago when they roasted marshmallows over an open fire after a successful hunt.

 

**July 17 – 60 days in hell**

 

Two months. Two agonizing months of razorblades, knives, fire, and acid. Two months of drawn out pain, suffocation, maiming. Two months of perverted sex, rape, forced self fellatio. No. Twenty years. Dean doesn’t know why - and doesn’t want to think about it too much - Alastair waited this long to bring Sam into it. It doesn’t matter either way, Sam’s here now.

Sam’s here. He feels foolish for letting himself believe Sam was really here. He believed Sam was here. He believes Sam is... No.

Alastair laughs again from his crouched position next to Sam and Jess, fucking on the floor. He knows Dean believed the lie, the trick, the illusion. That Sam is here. No!

He so desperately wants to reach out, cry out, beg for Sam to come to him and take him off the rack, take him away from Alastair, save him from his worst nightmares. But Sam is busy, and doesn’t pay him any attention. He doesn’t even see Jess, all he wants is Sam. Sam.

‘Isn’t this the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, Dean? Your little brother fucking his pretty little girlfriend from behind. It makes me all... tingly inside.’

Alastair’s voice is taunting, a maniacal grin on his face, his eyes firmly fixed on Sam and Jess. Dean watches Alastair bend down to whisper something in Jess’ ear before she disentangles herself from his little brother and hauls him up to push him with his back against Dean. She grins at Dean, eyes black, demon stench surrounding her.

He silently begs Sam to fight back, shove her off, defend himself. But when Sam turns his head, Dean knows his hope is futile. Sam’s not home.

‘Hey big brother. Having fun yet? You are, I can feel it. I can feel your cock pressing against my ass. You want to fuck me. Don’t you, Dean? You sick motherfucker.’

He closes his eyes against Sam’s words. He knows he’s hard, Alastair keeps him that way. After three weeks, his body’s betraying him, responding to the touches of female demons, of Alastair himself, of other tortured souls. Release is never offered, it’s just another tactic Alastair uses to manipulate him. Just another thing to torture him with.

His body is jostled as Jess presses herself against Sam and kisses him forcefully. Sam lifts her up, and sinks his cock inside her, her legs wrapped around Sam and Dean at the same time. Dean closes his eyes, not wanting to see Sam fucking Jess. Not wanting to show the lust he knows is visible in his eyes.

He hears Alastair laugh again.

‘Like that, do you Dean? You’re a sick bastard, you know that?’

Alastair presses his face in Dean’s neck and breathes hot, acid air on it for a few seconds, before whispering in his ear.

‘Why not do it, Dean? Why not take it? He’s right here, boy, right here for the taking. Feel that tight ass rubbing against you, that hot hole practically begging for his big brother’s cock. Huh Dean? What do you say?’

The urge to protest and beg has never been this big. He can’t... He can’t fuck his Sam. He can’t. It’s not right. He wants to, but he can’t. He squeezes his eyes tight, and shakes his head. No, no, no. I can’t.. I won’t... I will not fuck Sammy! No, no, no...

Slick fingers wrap around his cock and he startles. His eyes fly open to meet Jess’ black ones. She smiles almost sweetly, a blush coloring her cheeks, her voice wrecked from moaning out Sam’s name.

‘It’s so good Dean. Sam fucks me so good. He wants this. Wants you. He always talked about it when we were together. How he wanted to hold you down and just ride you.’

He watches her bounce in Sam’s lap, her legs still wrapped around his waist, her fingers wrapped tightly around his cock, jacking him off slowly to full hardness. Sam’s ass rubbing against him and Jess’ hand on his cock make Dean steadily lose his mind, lose himself in sensations and lust. He can feel his balls drawing up, heavy and full from weeks of denied release.

Just when he is about to come, Jess’ hand stills and she squeezes him hard at the base. His eyes flutter closed and he bites back a pleading noise. He feels Sam move between them, and then a whisper is in his ear.

‘Open your eyes, Dean, watch me fuck myself on your cock.’

No. No, I won’t do this. I won’t fuck Sam, I can’t. No, no, no. I won’t...

His inner begging is cut off by a burning hot body pushing back against him and his cock sliding in... in... somewhere. He opens his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to see and yet wanting to see at the same time, and what he sees shocks him so much it tears a yell out of him.

Alastair laughs from his place, pressed between Jess and Dean, wriggling on Dean’s cock.

‘There you go, son! Let it go, I know you want to. Beg me.’

He wants to hold back, not come, not spill in Alastair’s body, but he’s been wound so high and tight, for weeks, to hold back. He’s teetering on the edge, and Alastair’s writhing pushes him ever nearer to the edge.

‘Come for me, Dean.’

He can’t do anything but comply.

_‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’_

No.

He dreams of the day he got tackled by Sam in his apartment at Stanford and he met the girl his little brother would marry one day.

 

**August 16 - 90 days in hell**

 

‘Last time we played with Sam was so much fun, wasn’t it? So I thought we’d play with him again.’

No. No more Sam, please. Anything, do what you want with me, but please. No more Sam.

He wants to beg, plead, scream at Alastair not to do this. Don’t cut Sam, don’t burn him, don’t torment him. But Alastair does and Dean can only watch. And when he closes his eyes, Alastair slices off another layer of skin from Sam’s body and doesn’t stop until he opens his eyes again and watches.

Control over his brain, his body, mouth is slipping. He moans and pants, soft sounds of protest, with every little thing Alastair does to Sam. His Sammy. Every cut, every burn, every slice, every poke, every whip, every punch. Every body part ripped out, every bug crawling under his skin and eating him away. He just wants it to stop.

‘What’s that, Dean? Did you say something?’

He has to bite his lip bloody to stop himself from pleading for Sam’s life out loud. The first injury he inflicted on himself. It feels like a milestone, a significant moment, like something should happen right now. Nothing happens but Alastair laughing while tearing out Sam’s nails one by one.

Sam’s eyes meet his. Dark with pain, begging him to do something to stop it. Reminding himself this isn’t real doesn’t work anymore. He knows, if he were to touch Sam, it would feel real and that’s enough. He knows, this Sam is feeling it all as if it were real. And that’s enough for him.

Enough to give up. Give in. Enough to close his eyes and cry silently. Enough to take everything Alastair throws at him to open his eyes and keep playing his game. Enough to finally open his mouth and plead.

‘Stop.’

Alastair just laughs.

_‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’_

No.

He dreams of Sam, and his sure steady hands patching him up, holding him up, pulling him close and keeping him safe.

 

**August 17 – 91 days in hell**

 

He doesn’t even give Alastair time to start.

‘Yes. I’ll do it, yes. Just… don’t hurt Sam anymore.’

‘You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’

‘Yes.’

He doesn’t dream anymore. Just plots revenge.

 

**August 26 - 100 days in hell**

 

He does everything Alastair tells him. What he tells him, when he tells him. A good little soldier, Alastair would say. It reminds him of his father. Or what he remembers from his father. Obedience, orders, military strict, tough.

Sam isn’t coming to save him. No one is. He has to save himself, find his own way out. Putting souls up on the rack and torturing them until they crack. He takes everything Alastair did to him and twists it into something far worse, more painful, horrifying. Alastair says he has promise. He promises to do even better. This is what he does now.

Down here, in hell, time is different from up there, on earth. Once, a long time ago, he cursed it. Now, there aren’t enough hours in the day to satisfy him anymore. He craves the new days like a junkie craves his next shot. A chance to start over, do it again, make his victims whole again so he can tear them down all over again. He lives for those times now. This is what he does now.

He doesn’t know how many souls he’s tortured and he doesn’t care. This is what he does now. Torture. Sometimes a feeling of wrong, or shouldn’t filters through his mind, but he is quick to smash it to pieces. This is what he does now.

He doesn’t dream anymore. Just plots revenge. This is what he does now.

 

**Day 1**

 

The oxygen burns his throat and the light stings his retinas through his eyelids. Clawing his way out of the ground is tough, but somehow, deep down, he knows he has to get out. It’s vital he climbs out. He dares to glance around before turning on his back and catching his breath. Grass, a flash of blue sky.

And a perfect circle of fallen trees surrounding the hole he crawled out of. A cross. He’s not sure if he’s dreaming. When his head is still ringing from the piercing whistle and exploding windows, but he himself is still in one piece, he’s sure. This ain’t hell and he ain’t dreaming.

 

**Day 7**

 

It’s good to be back. Hunting. He’s got his baby back, his little brother back, Bobby back. And he gained an angel. It’s the most he’s had in a long, long time. The only thing he hasn’t gotten back is sleep.

Nightmares filled with smoke, pain, and Alastair. His mind can’t seem to remember he’s not in Hell anymore, and at night he’s still being tortured, still being broken and beaten. He dreams of Alastair cutting and ripping him to pieces. He dreams of the fire licking at him until it consumes and eats him alive. He dreams of his family.

His mother, beautiful and happy. She’s making pie while he’s playing outside their home in Lawrence. He pushes the swing higher and higher until he is sure he’s going to flip over the pole and make a full turn. He laughs, lets the wind take away everything around him. When he finally slows down, he can hear her calling out for him.

‘Dean? Where’s my little angel? Come inside Dean, the pie’s ready!’

She’s waiting for him inside, with the pie in her hands and worms crawling out of her eye sockets.

His dad, shotgun in one hand, the other on Dean’s shoulder. He’s explaining how to shoot the smaller gun Dean’s got in his hands, pointing at the can a few feet away.

‘Just raise the gun, aim it at the center of the can and pull the trigger. Just be careful to not lock your elbows, so you don’t crack them when the gun goes off, okay?’

He nods vehemently, ready to just try it already. His dad nudges him towards the cans and he raises the gun. He looks at the end of the gun, where the little tip that guides his aim is, and pulls the trigger. It hits the can right in the center and Dean turns back to his dad with a cocky grin. His dad smiles back, blood leaking from the gunshot in his forehead, dripping from his nose and the corner of his mouth.

He dreams of the days he spent snuggled up with his mother on the couch, his ear against her rounded belly, listening for his little brother inside. His mom said Sam could hear him and sometimes he sings to him.

‘Sing a song, Dean, Sam’ll like that. And when he comes out, you can sing it to him in person, how’s that sound?’

He sings, and his mom convulses, her belly moving grotesquely, tearing open. Sam coming out blue, cold and dead. He can’t stop singing, no matter how hard he tries.

He dreams of his first hunt. His dad in front of him, Sam back at the motel. They’re chasing a ghost, an angry ghost killing random people just for fun. The gun doesn’t shake in Dean’s hand, his eyes sharp and focused on his surroundings. But it is no match for his father turning on him with a wicked grin and a hack knife in his hands.

He really loved Cassie. His dreams are filled with her soft hands, her plump lips and her hoarse voice whispering dirty things in his ear. Her searing hot tongue in his ear, worming inside his head and eating his brain out.

He dreams of playing with their neighbor’s dogs back in Kansas. The real ones never did tear his chest open and devour his insides, before dragging his remains to hell by their teeth.

He dreams of Sam more than anything. His memories of Sam twisting and distorting into horror scenes in his dreams. Blood, torture and terror fill any minute of sleep he can get, so he slowly starts giving up. He doesn’t think he can take another night waking up with Sam’s name in a scream dying on his lips, his clothes sticking to his sweaty body, his hands trembling with fear and panic. When he does fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, he spends every minute in hell. Almost literally.

He doesn’t think Sam’s noticed. Yet. He’s - just - managed to keep his screams to himself and his incessant turning and tossing quiet enough not to wake him. But he’s slipping, slowly but surely. And he can’t keep it secret from Sam anymore. He tries, but it’s hard when he starts falling asleep over his breakfast and half slips into his nightmares, with his brother sitting across from him.

But he needs to pretend. As long as he can, for both their sakes. No matter what.

 

**Day 34**

 

Sam’s been looking at him funnily for days now. But Dean won’t talk about it. Not yet. Not ever, if it’s up to him. Sam doesn’t have to know what happened in the pit. Alastair, the hallucinations, the souls on his own rack. It also means Sam doesn’t need to know about his nightmares.

‘I’m fine, Sam.’

‘No, you’re not! You’re hardly sleeping!’

‘It’s just insomnia, Sam, nothing to worry about.’

Of course Sam doesn’t believe him, but somehow, for some reason, he’s not pushing. Yet. Dean knows his little brother and he knows it’s coming. Question is, what makes Sam finally crack?

Agent Henricksen throws Sam around while Meg, the real Meg, plays Dean for a fool. But just when he thinks Meg’s about to gain the upper hand, she flickers and fritzes out completely, leaving nothing but silence and tension in the air.

‘Hello Dean.’

His head whips up and around. No.

‘Dean?’

Sam’s voice then. Not Alastair’s. Not Meg’s. Sam’s.

‘Dean?’ Slightly more demanding, yet still hesitant, unsure. He needs to respond before it turns to worried and scared. Sam’s voice, not Alastair’s. Sam’s.

‘Yeah.’ He manages to push the word out, barely.

‘Everything okay?’ Still hesitant, but inching closer to worried with every syllable. He forces himself to take a breath and try again.

‘I’m fine. Really, Sammy.’ Better, but he knows Sam won’t be fooled. Not anymore.

‘Are you sure, Dean?’

No! He whips around again, Sam’s voice came from behind him. Nothing but his faint laughter in the distance.

‘Are you sure, Dean?’ Sam. Sam’s voice, not Alastair’s.

‘Yeah.’ No.

He’s not any closer to being fine weeks later, when he lays his eyes on his father and mother, and his grandfather, in 1973. If anything, it sends his nightmares into overdrive, as if his mind won’t let him forget and deny what his body went through downstairs.

Convincing his dad to buy the Impala. Finding out that his mother is of the hunter descent, not his dad. His grandfather, who his little brother was named after. His grandmother Deanna. All of whom starred in his latest dream about fire, smoke and torture. Just like back then.

He loses a few more pieces of himself.

 

**Day 75**

 

A few almost straight forward cases is all Dean needed to shake the eerie feeling he’d been having for weeks. While they did nothing to stop his nightmares from keeping him up and awake, he’s been able to at least get back to his life a little.

A man turning into a monster, a shifter who thought he was Dracula, a wishing well gone sour, ghost sickness that made Lilith and Alastair haunt him in his dreams for a few days – something he is coming to expect and getting used to anyway, and only one seal broken when Samhain was raised successfully. The angels hadn’t been happy, but they had saved an entire town from annihilation. They counted it as a win, patting themselves on the back until Ruby brought them news and a girl named Anna.

 

**Day 81**

 

They expected some heavy duty demons to come after them and Anna, but what they got was so much more than that. He’s not sure he can handle it. As if it isn’t hard enough settling back into life again. As if he isn’t having enough troubles with his memories and nightmares yet. Hell is back and it’s real.

_Push it down, push it down. Don’t show you’re scared. You’re with Sam, you’re fine. Push it down._

Staring at himself in the mirror, Dean can see the terror in his eyes and prays Sam’s too preoccupied to notice. But he knows Sam. He knows Sam is not going to let go of. But right now, Dean just wants his shoulder back in its place and half a bottle of whiskey. He can’t handle Sam’s questions, not yet. Maybe not ever. But certainly not right now.

_You’re with Sam, you’re fine. Push it down._

He watches Sam pour the red wine - all they had lying around - over the deep gash on his arm with sick fascination. His first, second, and third thoughts are all cold, detached, and hopeful. That has to hurt. It scares him to no end and he has to say something, anything to gain the upper hand right now.

‘So you lost the magic knife, huh?’

Sam huffs. ‘Yeah, saving your ass. Who the hell was that demon?’

He hesitates a second, unsure of what will come out of his mouth if he opens it.

_Push it down._

‘No one good.’ That’s what comes out, but he is infinitely glad Sam’s not looking at him right now. He can practically feel the burning ball of terror reflected on his face. He shoots a little ‘thank you’ up to the high heavens when Sam doesn’t press on, with a little side note to please help him hide a while longer.

_Just until I got everything straight again._

Sam pops his shoulder with a nauseating crunch. The sound echoes in his ears, memories of crunching bones, tearing muscles, and white hot pain. He almost wants to ask Sam if he smells the rotting, burning flesh too, but he knows that’s not real. Alastair hasn’t gotten them yet. Not up here anyway.

The cracks are getting bigger, the hole darker.

 

**Day 85**

 

‘I know you heard him.’

‘Who?’

‘Alastair. What he said. About how I had promise.’

‘I heard him.’

‘You’re not curious?’

‘Dean, I’m damn curious, but you’re not talking about hell and I’m not pushing.’

Yeah, he sure flung that in Sam’s face enough over the past few months. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” “Stop pushing me, Sam, I don’t remember.” “There’s nothing to tell, I’m fine.” “Enough with the third degree already.” “I won’t lie anymore, but I won’t talk about it.”

He can’t do it anymore though. This is killing him, and he needs to let it out. Let something out. Even though he knows it’s not gonna change a damn thing, he needs to at least tell Sam what happened, how he’s feeling. Tell Sam he’s not fine, he’s not doing okay and hell is slowly pulling him back again.

‘For thirty years, I told him. But then I couldn’t do it anymore Sammy. I couldn’t.’

Sam’s shock thunders over Dean from behind, making him choke up even more. Sam says no one would have held on as long as he did, but he can’t believe the words. That’s not how he feels, what he lives with.

‘How I feel… This… Inside me? I wish I couldn’t feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn’t feel a damned thing.’

The hole is still dark, still deep, still growing.

 

**Day 87**

 

Sam goes out of his way to try and distract him from just about anything that has to do with hell. He doesn’t have the heart to tell his little brother it won’t work, hell is with him, inside him. It is him.

And when they lose Pamela, he can practically feel Alastair’s breath on his neck. Closing in, dragging him down, pulling him back.

It’s all consuming.

 

**Day 99**

 

‘Hello Dean.’

No.

‘Oh yes.’

No.

‘Dean, Dean, Dean. Deny it all you want, but you know it’s me. I’ve missed you.’

This isn’t real, this isn’t real, This. Isn’t. Real.

‘Oh, it’s real alright.’

The room is dark when he opens his eyes. There’s a door right in front of him, a small window at eye height. The other side is dark too. A bundle of light comes from his left side, casting a beam of light on the devil’s trap on the floor. Dean’s arms are strung up to his sides, his feet bound to something behind him, trapped in the sign on the floor. It seems all too familiar, but he can’t remember what from.

‘When we're out together, and dancing, cheek to cheek...’

He realizes Alastair is singing. Something niggles at the back of his mind, but he can’t quite grasp it.

‘Oh come on Dean! Think, boy! We’ve done this before, this marvelous dance of ours. Of course, out there, I was where you are and you were... tickling me.’

A movement at the door makes him focus more on his surroundings, and the niggling feeling becomes a memory. A memory of what was happening outside his mind. When the soft squeaky sound of small wheels accompanies Alastair’s steps into the light, the memory becomes fear.

‘There we go, son! Now we’re getting somewhere. Did you really think you’d get away with it?’

No, no, no! This isn’t possible! This isn’t real, this isn’t happening. He starts pulling on the restraints, silently pleading them to come lose, to let him go. Begging like he never did in hell.

‘Remember your sorry display of toys you call torture equipment? Well, you can be sure I have not made that mistake. I remember all the fun things we did in the pit, the good times we had. Let’s see... What to start with? Oh, I have just the perfect thing! Your precious little brother.’

He watches Alastair put on Sam like a suit in horror, wanting to look away, but not able to. Sam - Alastair - walks up to him and grips his shoulders tightly. His sour breath wafts over his face, making Dean’s eyes water and sting.

‘Dean.’

He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. No, he won’t give in, he won’t respond, he won’t beg.

‘Dean!’

Sam - no, Alastair - shakes him hard, making his whole body spasm and his breath catch in his throat.

‘Dean! Wake up man, come on! Dean!’

Sam - really Sam - shakes him harder and his eyes fly open. The panic inside him rises, he can’t breathe.

‘Dean, breathe man. Just breathe.’

He lets himself be pulled against Sam’s chest, his little brother’s hands on Dean’s chest from behind, making him breathe with him. He lets the hallucination fall away slowly, reality returning bleak and cold, but infinitely better than the darkness. Sam’s here, not in the darkness.

Another crack, another piece lost. Another burden to bear.

_“And it is written, that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.”_

 

**Day 100**

 

Alastair’s gone. Dead. Sam killed him. Killed him. Dead.

It’s almost surreal, knowing Alastair is dead. He tries to imagine not expecting him around every corner anymore, not feeling hunted anymore, but he can’t. It’s too hard to believe Alastair’s dead. Alastair can’t be dead. Alastair doesn’t die.

He stares at the ceiling, still remembering the hallucination from a few hours ago. The nightmare his unconscious mind had supplied. He can still feel the terror, the panic he felt as he hung from that rack. Another rack. Only this time he couldn’t get off it by torturing souls. He was on it because he tortured souls. Because he tortured Alastair.

He closes his eyes and wills the rising panic away. Nothing to panic about anymore, right? Right. _Wrong_.

 

**Day 105**

 

They find Zachariah, and Dean realizes what he thought was an alliance, is actually a group of dicks with an agenda of their own and no care about them.

They find Chuck, a prophet. Someone who knows their lives, their thoughts, their secrets. Dean feels himself distance himself from Chuck. Chuck knows too much, about him, about hell, about what’s inside him. Missing.

They find Jimmy, Cass’s vessel. And they find Adam. A brother.

And he finds a truth he could have done without.

 

**Day 131**

 

It’s the only thing he can think of doing. It hurts him to have to trick Sam into Bobby’s panic room, but not as much as what Sam’s been doing. Nothing could hurt that much.

He thought he was doing better. With Alastair dead, he was feeling slightly better. Not feeling hunted all the time was nice for a change. Screw the angels, he would never be intimidated by those winged assholes. But Sam... His Sam, the one person he thought he could trust with his life. Sam betrayed him.

He sits outside the panic room, with his back against the cold wall, and thinks back to when things seemed so uncomplicated. No apocalypse, no angels, no demon blood. No Lucifer, no Ruby. Anger flares up in him at the thought of Ruby. She led his little brother astray, making him believe he was doing a good thing. Fucking demon bitch.

With a sigh, he gets up and heads upstairs. There’s no point in cursing Ruby, it’s not gonna make Sam any better. It’s not gonna give him the revenge he so desperately wants to get for everyone and everything else fucking things up for them. All he wants is one fucking day of peace and quiet, and Sam healthy.

Bobby is upstairs, doing some reading. More research on those fucking angels and their plan for Sam. It might have been Alastair’s, a demon’s, plan, but the angels are taking fantastic advantage of it. Opportunistic bastards. He drops himself in the chair on the other side of Bobby’s desk, and rests his head in his hands. Bobby doesn’t speak, no sound in the house.

It feels like years, but seconds at the same time, before they hear a noise coming from downstairs. Dean looks up at Bobby, but Bobby just shrugs and gets up. They hurry downstairs, the sounds coming from the panic room growing louder with each step closer they take.

Bobby rips the small viewing latch open and Dean peers through. Sam’s on his back in front of the cot, moaning and writhing.

‘What if he’s faking?’

It physically hurts to say it, but he can’t trust his eyes so easily anymore when it comes to Sam.

‘You really think he would?’

No. Yes. No, Sam would never fake something like that! Or would he?

‘I think he’d do anything.’

He realizes with a shock he means the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He doesn’t trust Sam anymore. Not after all of this. The person Dean gave his life to has betrayed him so bad that he’s become a monster to Dean.

But then Sam gets flung against the wall and all doubt leaves their minds.

‘That ain’t faking!’

Sam gets dragged along the walls, knocking things over. His face is strained, pain and struggling evident. His arms reaching out for something, anything. His breath stalling.

Dean rips open the door to the panic room and rushes in, Bobby hot on his heels. Together they drag Sam off the wall and force him to the ground. The seizures are getting worse and for a moment, it’s like Dean’s back in hell.

Alastair ripping Sam to pieces, carving the skin off his bones with his fingernails. Sam’s body seizing and writhing in its bonds, and Dean forced to watch. Alastair backing off when all the skin is gone, laughing at the sight of Sam’s flesh dripping with blood, seizing.

_Isn’t it beautiful, Dean? Just look at him. The life slowly seeping from him, his heart giving up, his lungs unable to catch a breath. He’s fighting with everything he has, Dean, see that? Stupid, stupid boy. Like he can really survive this and save you. Stupid boy.’_

He hears Bobby talking, but it’s like he’s underwater, not able to catch the words or make sense of them.

_’Seizing again, is he? Couldn’t save him from the big, bad demons, could you?’ Alastair’s voice is mocking. ‘He liked it, you know. Drinking the blood, fucking Ruby.’_

‘Dean!’

Bobby’s yell drags him out of it, back to the panic room where his brother is still seizing.

‘Before he has another fit.’

‘Yeah, just get it over with.’

He needs to get out of here, he needs to get out and away. Now.

They get Sam to calm down and crash in an unconscious sleep again. Dean flees the house as soon as he can. He runs out into Bobby’s junkyard and collapses in between the piles of old cars. He can’t seem to catch his breath, his heart going a mile a minute. He wants to scream, curse, yell, cry, but nothing comes. Instead, he feels his heart breaking, and it hurts.

He loses a big part of himself that day, leaves it in the panic room with his little brother, he leaves it behind amid the rotten skeletons of the cars surrounding him. He feels it being dragged down into the dark pit where his heart used to be.

 

**Day 149**

 

It is almost anti-climactic, starting the apocalypse. Yes, they killed Ruby. Yes, Lucifer is free. And yes, Sam is no longer a demon blood junkie. But still. He expected more. Bigger. Like, rapture things. Hoards of locusts, that sort of thing. Instead, they get Zachariah.

And Zachariah is frustrated.

‘Then how about we heal you from... stage four stomach cancer?’

‘No.’ _You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack._

‘Let’s see how Sam does without his lungs.’

‘No.’ _You can stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack._

‘No more jokes. Bang.’

He watches Sam go down with a grunt. It takes everything he’s got, but he looks back at Alastair. Zachariah.

‘Stop. Just... Stop.’

‘You know how to stop this, Dean. Right now. All you need to do is take up my knife. Take my knife, cut, and I will take you off my rack.’

No.

‘... What?’

‘You know how to stop this, Dean. Just say the magic word. One tiny little word.’

‘No.’

Zachariah sighs dramatically.

‘Ever the stupid, stubborn bastard, aren’t you Dean?’

Dean looks away from Zachariah, desperately trying to clear his mind from Alastair. He needs to find a way out of here. Get Sam out of here, get them both out of here so they can figure out a way to end all of this. Without giving one of them up as angel condom in the meantime, preferably.

It’s Cass that saves them in the end, but Dean can’t shake Alastair’s voice from his mind. _You can stop this, Dean. Right now_. It pulls on him, on his mind, dragging him down into the dark corners of his mind. The corners he tries so hard to ignore and forget, but they won’t be ignored nor forgotten.

The nightmares intensify, fuelled by Zachariah’s words. Michael’s vessel. Opposite Sam. Fighting against each other. Torturing each other. Killing each other. He wakes drenched in sweat, a scream lodged in his throat, his eyes burning with smoke and tears. He doesn’t tell Sam, he can’t tell Sam that when he dreams about it, he feels a little bit better. It’s like revenge, bittersweet and destructive.

That it heals a tiny bit of himself.

 

**Day 165**

 

He wakes up with a shock, immediately grabbing the gun from under his pillow and aiming it at the door. Nothing. He glances at the other bed in the room, an automatic thing. Nothing. He’s not sure what he expected, so he doesn’t understand the feeling of disappointment that settles in his gut. He doesn’t care much for figuring it out either.

_“I don’t trust me either.”_

He sits and resolutely shakes his head. Nope, not going there, not today. Today he is going to go out for coffee and breakfast, scour the papers for a case, and not think about his demon-blood drinking little brother, out there alone, walking away from him. Again. Nope. Not even once.

_“I know how messed up I am.”_

Okay, so maybe once.

He quickly showers and dresses before trudging over to the diner across the street. The coffee’s awful, but he has four cups anyway. The bacon is just this side of too greasy, while the pancakes are just that side of too dry. He resigns himself to the fact it’s just not his day.

He finds a hunt and heads out. Alone. He doesn’t glance at the passenger seat once. He doesn’t turn to crack a joke at Sam once. He doesn’t start to introduce his FBI partner once. He needs to stop lying to himself.

_“I can’t blame anyone but me.”_

He and Cass hunt down Raphael, but they get nowhere with him. No God to be found, just another dick of an angel with its own agenda. Why did he expect something else?

_“The problem is me. How far I’ll go.”_

It takes a whole bottle of Jack to make him admit to himself his head’s not in the game. The hangover is brutal, but at least he tricked himself into falling asleep before he started missing Sam.

_“There’s something in me that scares the hell outta me, Dean.”_

It takes a walk in the Croatoan-infected future to make him see what a mistake he made. For all the shitty things Zachariah does to him, to Sam, this is one of the times Dean wants to thank him. Almost, he’s still a dick.

_“Maybe it’s best we just go our separate ways.”_

Sam’s words hadn’t hurt. They filled him with relief instead. Relief Sam was saying them so that he wouldn’t have to. They also meant he would be without Sam.

_“I think you’re right. The truth is, I spend more time worrying about you than about doing the job right.”_

He thought he’d feel better. He thought he’d feel safer. He thought he would worry less over Sam. He was wrong.

_“I’m sorry, Dean.”_

_“I know you are.”_

And now he is.

Seeing what the world would come to if he never says yes to Michael and Sam says yes to Lucifer made up his mind. No matter how much Sam lied to him, no matter how many times Sam screwed Ruby, or drank demon blood, he is still Dean’s little brother. They are still a team.

_“Take care of yourself, Dean.”_

_“Yeah, you too Sammy.”_

He now realizes he is no better off alone. They are no better off alone. Separated they become easier targets for everyone and everything hunting them down. They stand at least a small chance if they stick together. If they say no together. If they take care of each other.

The lies, the demon blood, Ruby, everything else can go to hell. What’s important is them. Sam-and-Dean.

He needs Sam back, whether he wants to or not. _I don’t_.

The hole inside of him is black, but no blacker than yesterday. It just hurts a little more.

 

**Day 179**

 

The first few hunts with Sam back are some of the craziest he’s ever seen. He’s never been seventy-something before, nor has he ever starred in some warped soap like hospital show. And he’s pretty sure Ghandi has never, ever before tried to attack and eat someone before. Nor has Paris Hilton, as crazy as she is.

The fan convention takes the cake though. With Chuck. And Becky. Dean shakes his head with a huff. Becky. And all those guys pretending to be them. “Sam and Dean”. It’s hilarious to see the “fans” walking around the mansion, pretending to be them, voices and all. Until the actual, real killing started, that is. That was a hoot and a half for sure.

It is almost enough to make him enjoy the hunt again. If not for the darkening shadow hanging over them, screaming at them to say yes, say yes, say yes. He can start to feel the pull in his body. The pull towards that small word that will bring everything down around them.

He hates himself for even thinking it, but the thought has been in his head more and more. Even through the period of monster-of-the-weeks and straight forward hunts, Dean hasn’t been able to fully trust Sam again. He’s doubly on edge during hunts, always watching both Sam’s and his own back, just because he doesn’t feel one hundred percent backed up by Sam. What will happen when the angels decide to really press on them and he can’t trust Sam?

It keeps Dean up at night, tossing and turning. If it isn’t Alastair and Hell keeping him up, it’s Sam. Logically he knows they need to be together, but emotionally he just can’t let Sam back in. Not completely. He wonders if he will ever be able to. He falls asleep wishing for something he knows he’ll never get.

He wants his little brother back.

 

**Day 213**

 

The city is deserted, but Dean feels watched, hunted. He’s not sure what it is, but Jo, Ellen and Sam are also feeling it. Something or someone is watching them. Closely. Just as close as Dean is keeping an eye on Sam.

Nothing’s changed. Weeks have passed and nothing’s changed. Sam says he isn’t drinking. Not even tempted to drink. Dean has a hard time to believe him. Sam goes above and beyond to prove himself to Dean, but Dean doesn’t accept it. The angels still hunt them down and press on them to make them take their places as vessels, like fate has predicted. They still say no. Dean doesn’t trust Sam and lies about it to Sam’s face. Nothing’s changed.

The pull in his gut is still there, getting stronger day by day. It undermines his principles, his determination to stick it to those angel puppets and keep turning them down. It makes him shiver with cold, chilling him to the bones. It reminds him of Alastair, freezing him slowly before chopping his frozen flesh off his body with a pick axe.

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the flashes of icy fire. This is not the time to get lost in his head. Not more than he already is anyway.

They all feel the presence at the same time.

‘Meg.’

Meg grins cockily, seemingly relaxed and confident. It pisses him off to no end and he raises the colt at her. She just smiles wider.

‘Didn’t come here alone, Dean-o.’

The hellhound drools and growls and Dean feels himself stiffen. He glances at Sam, who in turn shares a look with Ellen and Jo. They all know what this means, not just him.

‘Hellhounds.’

‘Yeah Dean, your favorite.’

The hellhound growls again and Dean shivers violently. This time not with cold, but with fear. Deep rooted, fierce fear. He can still feel their teeth sinking into his skin and flesh, their jaws close around his intestines and tear, their acid saliva burn his insides.

Alastair used to have his hounds sit and watch when he worked on Dean. They would laugh like hyenas when Alastair laughed. They would growl and snap their jaws when Alastair was angry or frustrated. They would wait patiently until Alastair fed them pieces of his body.

‘Come on boys, my father wants to see you.’

‘I’ll think we’ll pass, thanks.’

Dean snaps back to the present when Meg speaks again. Sam voices all of their thoughts at Meg’s invitation, and he almost snorts sarcastically. Almost, except that he is scared. Afraid. Terrified. I’m-about-to-throw-up terrified.

‘Your call. You can make this easy, or you can make this really, really hard.’

Meg’s cocky attitude pisses him off enough to swallow down the bile rising in this throat and snarl back at her.

‘When have you known us to ever make anything easy?’

Before he loses his nerve, he pulls the trigger on the colt and aims slightly left of Meg. A squeal and a black spatter, he hit the hellhound full on. Fuck, he hit the hellhound full on!

‘Run!’

Ellen and Sam turn and start running to the row of shops behind them, but Jo hesitates one second, staying closer to Dean. Bad, bad mistake. But before Dean can yell at her to go, run, again, a claw wraps around his ankle and pulls.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes, his hands scraping on the gravel of the road. He barely manages to keep his head from bouncing off the road. Pain shoots through his leg and his arms, his breath leaves him with a grunt. His vision blacks out and all that’s left is the claw and the hot, sour hellhound’s breath on his neck.

The hellhound rips his ankle off, the pain shooting up from his leg to his groin. He can’t scream, no sound will come out of his mouth. Claws dig into his leg, a little higher this time, tearing off everything below the knee. The sickening crunch is almost satisfying to his ears, almost like filling a piece of that huge, black hole where his heart is supposed to be.

Gunshots reach his ears and he startles a little. Alastair never used guns, never liked the way they took away what he called “foreplay”. The hellhound sinks his teeth in Dean’s thigh, and he is momentarily distracted from the gunshots. The second round chases away the hallucination though. and he realizes it’s Jo shooting at the hellhounds.

‘Jo!’

He surges up and towards Jo, who has already started running to the shop Sam and Ellen are breaking into, but it’s too little, too late. Jo goes down with a scream, blood splatters her hands, her clothes, Dean’s clothes.

They somehow manage to get Jo inside the hardware store, but Dean can’t do much more than stare at his jeans. There are bloodstains on them, Jo’s blood, and hellhound blood too, black. He doesn’t even have to focus to recall the taste of hellhound blood in his mouth, that memory has never been far off. With the taste comes the smell and the feel of it on his skin. Alastair loved to rub it on his skin, smear it on his lips, finger-fuck him with it until Dean’s body betrayed him and released.

In the back of his mind, it registers Sam and Ellen doing things. Talking. Running around. Preparing.

Preparing for what?

It’s Sam that pulls Dean out of the sensory memories. It’s Sam that catches him up on what has been happening. It’s Sam that doesn’t judge him for zoning out when he did.

‘That is the worst fucking plan I have ever heard!’

Dean marches over to Jo, where Ellen is crouched next to her. There are tears in Ellen’s eyes, but her mouth is set in a determined line. She’s already made up her mind, her daughter isn’t dying for nothing.

‘We’re doing this, Dean.’

He argues with her for a while, with Jo too, but he can’t win. Not when Jo and Ellen are set on doing this. No one ever wins when Ellen and Jo have their minds set on something. It almost pulls a smile out of him. Almost.

Minutes tick by. They seem to take hours. Dean contacts Bobby, relays everything that’s happening. He hears in Bobby’s voice the same resignation that he feels in that deep, dark pit where his heart should be. It’s over.

Dean does everything on autopilot. It’s like his mind checked out for the time being, keeping him firmly locked between the real world and the pit. Everything he picks up triggers something. The nails make his palms ache with phantom pain from the crucifying. The buckets make him shiver with cold from the water his head got held under until he choked. The drying demon blood makes him gag with the taste of his own blood fresh in his mouth.

He has to close his eyes when he kisses Jo goodbye, or else he will see the flesh fall off her face, her hair falling out in clumps. Feeling it is enough.

There’s fire. There’s heat. There’s pain. There’s death. Dean gets lost, loses Sam, loses Ellen and Jo. It’s over. _Is it, Dean?_

When the fire is out and the smoke has lifted, Dean is at Bobby’s and Ellen and Jo are gone. Dead. All because Dean didn’t have his head in the game and got distracted. He killed Ellen and Jo. That’s on him, and him alone. He killed Jo and Ellen. Two more names to his credit.

Lucifer can’t be killed with the colt. Of course, because why would things be that easy?

He’s not sure if he has enough of himself left to lose.

 

**Day 230**

 

He’s not entirely sure they should be left out of that mental hospital. He’s not sure he should have left, anyway. Despite everything, Sam’s not nearly crazy enough to be in a nuthouse, but Dean? Yeah, he’s screwed up enough to warrant a long stay in a place like that.

Sam keeps telling Dean he’s not crazy, he’s not dangerous, but Dean’s not so sure. The night terrors, the hallucinations. And Sam doesn’t even know about the panic attacks and violent outbursts where Dean punches the nearest walls or doors. Nor does Sam know how sometimes Dean cries himself to sleep, terrified of what lurks in his dreams. He won’t even admit that to himself yet. Dean Winchester doesn’t do depression. Except when he does.

And don’t even get him started on the whole guilt thing. _I killed Jo and Ellen_.

The whole body swap thing is actually pretty funny, but when the initial ridicule wears off, Dean is left with nothing but abandonment issues. He nearly has a panic attack every time Sam utters the words “let’s split up”, or when he wakes up and Sam’s not in the room, but out on a coffee run. Or when he needs to pee and Alastair’s voice whispers to him, _Better hurry, before he leaves again, Dean_. He is scared stiff of waking up one day and with Sam gone and no way to find him again.

And then Zachariah kills Sam. Flashes from years ago blind him, the knife in Sam’s back, Sam’s lifeless body on the dirty, grimy bed. The deal. The hellhounds. Lillith and Alastair. Sam’s lifeless body. Sam’s dead body. He hyperventilates, his head swimming, blood rushing in his ears. Sam.

He doesn’t even register the extra person in the room until Sam shifts and blinks his eyes open. It isn’t until he lays his hands on Sam again, alive and warm, that he registers what’s being said. Abel and Cain, fate, destiny. He’s not sure he gets it all, but he understands what it means.

They are meant to be together. Sam-and-Dean. He can breathe a little easier.

_Who are you kidding, Dean?_

 

**Day 263**

 

He can’t. He just can’t. Sam’s on the cot again, seizing again, hallucinating again. And Dean? Just. Fucking. Can’t.

Truth is, he had wondered how he wasn’t affected by Famine’s presence. Why he wasn’t craving for anything. Anything at all. Then Famine confirmed his suspicions.

_‘That’s one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean. Can’t fill it, can you? Not with food, or drink, not even with sex.’_

He felt obliged to disagree, but it wasn’t more than perfunctory. Because he knew what Famine said was true. And Famine knew it too.

_‘Oh, you can smirk and joke and lie to your brother, lie to yourself, but not to me! I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can’t win and you know it. But you just keep fighting, just keep going through the motions. You’re not hungry because inside you are already dead.’_

It had hurt, sure, but it had also hit very close to home. Like a homerun. He knew they couldn’t win and he knew there was nothing they could do. He really doesn’t care all that much.

It should scare him, make him depressed and suicidal. It doesn’t. In fact, he is calmer than he has been in years. His little brother is addicted to demon blood and seizing with withdrawal, most of his family and friends are dead because of him, the world is about to end and he can’t stop it. And he is fine.

Really. He’s fine. And done.

_'You’re not hungry because inside you are already dead.’_

There’s nothing left to lose but himself. That’s fine too.

 

**Day 329**

 

Sam’s heaven doesn’t have Dean in it. Dean’s heaven doesn’t have his dad in it. Dean’s heaven has his mom in it.

‘Dean. Hey Dean, you hungry?’

He stares at his mother, remembering how beautiful she was. Is. The house smells like pie, wafting up over the stairs to his room. He follows his nose downstairs, down the familiar steps, into the bright kitchen. He startles when the phone rings, hasn’t heard it in too many years.

‘Hello? No, John, we’re not having this conversation again. Time to think about what? You’ve two boys at home.’

At the mention of his father’s two sons, Dean remembers Sam. There’s not enough room in his head right now for Sam. Because... Mom.

‘I remember this. Mom and dad were fighting, and then he moved out for a couple of days.’

He feels a twang in his gut at the memory. He remembers mom crying, he himself asking questions, his mom asking him to take care of Sammy while she went upstairs. To cry.

‘Dad always said they had the perfect marriage.’

Dean grimaces at Sam’s wondering remark. His reply is wry.

‘It wasn’t perfect until after she died.’

Enough said.

He can see his mom tensing, the image distorted with his memory.

‘Fine, then don’t. There’s nothing more to talk about.’

Sam shifts behind him, unsure of what to do or say when his mom hangs up with a sigh.

‘What happens next?’

Tears flood his eyes, and he does nothing to stop them. They don’t fall, just like they didn’t fall all those years ago. He walks around the table to the kitchen, stands in front of his mom. Her eyes are sad, tearing up too and he can’t help but pull her in and hug her tight.

‘It’s okay, mom. Dad still loves you. I love you too. I’ll never leave you.’

His mom pulls back and looks at him with a sweet smile.

‘Who says I need you, Dean?’

As if she asks him if he wants a piece of pie.

‘What?’

Her smile never fades as she advances on him. Her voice never loses the sweet tone.

‘I don’t need you, Dean. No one does. You’re nothing but trouble. You should have just stayed in the pit, where you belong. You couldn’t save me, you couldn’t save your father, you couldn’t save Sam. And look at what he turned into, huh? A monster, a freak. All because of you. Worthless little Dean.’

Dean gapes at his mother, too stunned to say anything or move away.

‘All those people that died because of you. What’s your tally now? 10? 25? You deserved to be in hell. You still do. And you know what, Dean? I have always regretted having you. I wish you were never born. I never wanted you! You’re nothing but trouble, bad news, death. You’re not worth living.’

No.

Yes.

‘Wake up, Dean!’

Sam’s voice is clear, strong, demanding, but he can’t obey it. Not when his mother is here. No matter the horrible things she is saying, they’re true anyway.

No, she’s wrong.

_Don’t fool yourself._

‘Dean! Don’t do this to me, man, wake up!’

He turns his attention back to his mother. A sly grin is spreading across her face and Dean knows, milliseconds before she opens her mouth, that whatever she is gonna say, it ain’t gonna be pretty.

_I deserve it._

‘Sammy, huh? Little Sammy. The little turned freak. Alastair told me all about little Sammy and what he did to you while wearing Sam. Did you really get turned on by it? Oh, I’m sure you did! You were always the little pervert. Disgusting whore is what you are. Fucking your little brother, spreading your legs for your own family. Or did you fuck him? No, I think you like taking it up the ass, don’t you Dean?’

It’s not his mother, it can’t be.

_Sure about that?_

‘Dean, please! Please, please, please, wake up! It’s not real, it’s just a dream. Please get out, please come back to me.’

Sam’s voice is softer now, but he can clearly hear the desperation in it. He looks at his mother – no, the demon wearing his mother – and for one terrifying second he thinks he’ll never get out. Only it’s less terrifying and more welcoming. He could stay, go back to hell, give in to that pull in his gut and become whatever Alastair wanted him to be. A good little soldier.

It’s not like anyone will miss him.

_I could stay._

‘Dean, please. I am begging you, don’t do this. Please come back, I can’t do this alone. Please, Dean. I know you feel rotten right now and I know you want out, but please, don’t leave me here alone. Don’t leave me.’

He wakes with a gasp and a cold shiver in his stomach. It spreads out through his whole body, freezing him to the core. You got away this time, Dean. This time.

Sam slumps back with a relieved sigh and a mumbled “thank god”. Dean doesn’t return the sentiment. God and heaven are nothing to be thankful for.

It takes everything he has to drag himself to the bathroom. On his way past Sam, he stops for a moment.

‘I’m scared, Sam. I’m scared I’ll lose you. I’m scared I’ll lose me.’

He makes it just in time for his vomit to hit the toilet. _You got away this time, Dean. This time_. He’s just not sure if he really wanted to get away.

 

**Day 351**

 

He tells her not to worry. He tells her she might see weird things, but he is going to take care of her and Ben. He tells her if he would be with anyone, it would be with her. He tells her that everything is going to be okay in the end.

He will make it okay, one way or another. Even if it kills him. Maybe because it kills him. He will save Lisa. He will save Ben. He has to at least do one good thing before he kicks it.

He will save at least one person, even if it kills him. And it will. He doesn’t want to get away anymore.

 

**Day: Last**

 

It’s gratifying to drive that stake in Zachariah. But it’s not enough.

He knows Sam said he wasn’t disappointed in him, but he can’t believe it. Even he is disappointed in himself. He’s weak, tired, and worthless. He lost everything he still had. His brother, his surrogate father, his best friend. His mother, his father, his lover. His freaking mind. What’s one more thing to loose?

His feet are moving before his mind is, but as he stands at the edge of the hole staring into the abyss he knows so well. It stares back. He can’t see Sam anymore, but knows he’s down there. Sam.

He jumps.

_It’s everything he remembers. The smell, the taste, the fire, the pain, the torture. But now, there’s Sam. He must be dreaming._


End file.
